Unless First A Dream
by Maureen Painted Green
Summary: In the aftermath of Hannah, Maluku, and Afghanistan, Booth and Brennan are faced with change, sadness, love, and Option #3.
1. The Sweeping Up the Heart

She could still taste the top-shelf scotch on his lips. It had been hours since the cab driver, summoned by the concerned bartender who'd finally kicked them out of the Founding Fathers, had dropped them off, yet the evidence remained. _You like evidence_, his voice teased in her head. Smiling secretly, she snuggled further under the Egyptian cotton sheets, shifting her eyes to gaze at the man sleeping beside her as she drew him closer. Asleep, his face lost the lines of worry that remained etched in it during his waking hours. Despite the five o'clock (or perhaps, 3 AM shadow) covering his chin, she could still catch the faint scent of his aftershave. Grumbling unconsciously, his eyes slowly opened, registering the circumstance. Pressing a feather-light kiss to her forehead, he drew her impossibly closer.

"Bones," he whispered, almost reverently.

"Mhmm,"

"Bones, you wanna maybe take another gander at option number 3?" His smile had now become an almost wolfish grin. She looked at him slowly, taking him - in the curves of his face, the dimple in his chin, the sparkle in his eyes – as if she were studying him like one of her skeletons, as if she had all the time in the world. Tracing one finger along the outline of his jaw, she lost herself in his chocolate eyes. Slowly, ever so deliberately, she closed the distance between them, enveloping his lips with her own, a kiss that frightened him with the purity of its love.

Love – that was something he'd always promised to show her. He would never have believed she'd be the one to show him. All those declarations he'd made over the years to her – explaining the difference between crappy sex and making love, telling her how things like relationships and families worked – he'd never known. Because whatever he'd felt for anyone in the past had never come close to what he was feeling here and now, for this woman in his arms. Seeley Booth was a man of strength, power, and pride. He'd never expected to be so humbled by love.

The urgency of her kisses increased, along with his desperation to discover new ways to hold her closer. _Breaking the laws of physics_, she'd once said. _A miracle_, he'd replied. _Making love – when two people become one_.

"I love you, Bones," he whispered into her hair. Her body stilled under his hands.

"And I, you, Booth."

She awoke slowly, slipping from the dream state as if she were instead waking from anesthesia. The lingering warmth in her chest dissipated, until it felt hollow, once again. She reached out a hand and found only blankets. She looked out the window and saw only darkness, heard the rain falling softly onto her roof. A lone tear slipped down her cheek, the one extravagance of emotion she allowed herself.

The dream had seemed so real. She had felt…comfortable. Protected. Safe. Loved. But no, she had to let those feelings go. They weren't real; they were merely products of the dopamine and epinephrine, still swirling in her bloodstream, despite her numerous requests that they leave her alone and move on. Find someone else to infect. _Great_, she mused, in annoyance, _now she was angry with chemicals in her bloodstream_. It saved her the pain of having to admit that she was really angry with him.

After all, it was all his fault. She'd been a perfectly happy workaholic before he came into her life. She had her puzzles and her bones, her parade of men, for the necessity of satisfying biological urges, and that was all she'd needed. Until he'd barged in and dragged her head out of her books, challenged her unwavering belief in the ability of science to explain everything worth knowing, and forced her to notice that there was a world nearby. She was furious with him, this whirlwind of a person who had blown her formerly ordered world into something more chaotic and freewheeling. Who had opened her eyes to life. What right did he have to plant himself in the middle of her world and make her start believing in things like family and hope and love? Another tear.

Just as quickly as it had come, the anger dissipated. She felt nothing, except a deep exhaustion. She was tired of all of it, tired of the worry for his safety, the regret over her own mistakes, the hopelessness of her situation. _It would be so easy_, she thought, _if I could just go to sleep and forget all of it._

It all came back to chemistry - Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle. In order to understand an electron, to discover its position and velocity – it had to be bombarded with so much energy that it would no longer exist. It is impossible, the principle stated, to know everything about an electron. If we know its position, the electron is gone before we can measure its velocity. She'd grappled with love as if the uncertainty principle didn't apply; as if it were possible to know everything. She had been wrong. In her effort to understand everything about love before surrendering to it, she'd driven it away. The electron had been bombarded with too much energy – scattered into the ether. He was not hers any longer. She'd been so willing to accept uncertainty in science, but so unwilling to accept an "I don't know" in the part of her life that mattered. _There are more things in heaven and Earth, Bones,_ she could almost hear him saying, _than are dreamt of in your science_.

Lost in reverie, Dr. Temperance Brennan gazed out the window at the falling rain. She marveled, for the first time in her life, at the terrible price of knowledge.


	2. Overdrive

"Morning, Bones." He greets her with a smile, but she can't help but notice that it doesn't reach all the way to his eyes. He looks rumpled, and there are dark circles under his eyes, and although she remembers a time when she would have had something to say about both, she realizes sadly that the time has passed. He's on the mend, it seems, but she still finds herself guarding her words, careful of the fresh line that he has drawn between them. Partners, she remembers. That's all they will ever be.

"Hello, Booth. I trust that your day is going well?"

"As well as can be expected." She wants to ask more. His wry smile disturbs her; it seems out of place on his usually jovial face. She bites her tongue. That level of intimacy is forbidden to her now.

"I'll grab my kit and we can go inspect the body." Her professionalism turns on, like a switch. He notices the second it happens – there's something she's not saying, something she desperately wants to. A part of him is pleased. He's petty and vindictive, but he's not proud of it.

"Bones," he calls out automatically, wanting to take back some of the harshness of his own words. She turns, waiting. "I brought you coffee." He's not ready to apologize yet. The rational part of him hopes that she will give him a little more time to be sorry, and that she will forgive him. The petty and vindictive part doesn't care. He holds out the cup like an olive branch.

"Thank you, Booth." Raising the cup to her lips, she nods slightly in his direction. It doesn't hold a candle to what their partnership used to be, Brennan decides, but it's a start.

xxxxxx

"What have we got?" Brennan shouts to the police officer overseeing the evidence as they arrive at the crime scene. Booth barely has time to put the car into park before she is out of it, starting towards the remains at a near jog. He smiles, in spite of himself. _Some things,_ he decides, _never change_. He strolls at a more leisurely pace towards the body, lingering to chat with the police officer who responded to the call and to inquire about the body's discovery. As he reaches his partner's side, she narrates her findings.

"The iliac crest suggests male. Judging by insect activity, I'd suggest he's probably been here for several months, but we will have to wait for Hodgins to give us a more accurate estimation. I'd estimate his age at 35-40 years." Her speech lets him know that she means business.

"I'll call the lab and let them know we're on the way," he replies, turning to leave.

"Oh, and Booth," she catches him mid-turn, "I believe that the victim was Catholic," she holds something out to him in her gloved hand. It is a Saint Christopher medal, the twin of the one around his neck. It unsettles him, briefly.

"Thirty-something Catholic male. I'll let Cam know." _No room here for anything but business_, he tells himself.

xxxxx

"Hello, Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth." Wendell Bray greeted the partners as they re-entered the Jeffersonian. They'd had the body sent back for an initial assessment by the intern while they stopped for lunch at the diner. _A very quick lunch_, Brennan noted. She supposed that she would have to get used to the idea of a short, working lunch with Booth, rather than the drawn-out conversations, arguments, and discussions of life and philosophy that she'd grown used to sharing with him. The dull ache that had persisted in her stomach since she'd come back from Maluku made its disapproval known. She'd never admit it to anyone, much less to Booth, but she finally understood the reasoning behind his "gut feeling". Her own was screaming at her that something was wrong.

"I was able to confirm the victim's identity in your absence. There is a remodeled gunshot wound to his left clavicle, as well as a few scars from a minor maxillofacial surgery on his maxilla. I was able to confirm his identity by cross-referencing medical records and the missing persons database." Wendell handed a file to Brennan.

"James Kingsley," she read. "He was an air force pilot?"

"Retired." Wendell nodded, "But the military still used him as a consultant for training purposes."

"Good work, Mr. Bray." Brennan affirmed, "I'd like to conduct my own initial examination now." She headed for the platform. The intern turned to follow.

"Oh, Agent Booth, I almost forgot – a package arrived for you this morning. Cam has it in her office."

xxxxx

"Seeley," he was greeted with a professional smile as he entered Camille Saroyan's office. He noted the pictures on the wall; Michelle looked older than he remembered. Guiltily, he realized he'd been too busy with personal problems to notice what had been going on in his friend's life.

"Cam, hi." He turned up the charm, "How've you been."

"From what I hear, a lot better than you." She had a point. He pointedly ignored it.

"Wendell said you had something for me?"

"Yes – it was dropped off earlier this morning." She handed him a small package, wrapped in what appeared to be brown grocery paper. He carefully opened one end to reveal the corner of a small jewelry box. Numbly, he unwrapped the small package the rest of the way. He'd thought he would never have to see this particular box again. He looked angrily at Cam. _She'd handed him this box,_ he decided, _so she got to be the one to answer for it_.

"I'm sorry, Seeley." She did look it. "Apparently, grounds staff fished it out of a fountain. They told me they found a jewelry store label inside and called; the proprieter was able to look up the sale and told them that it belonged to you."

"I threw it in the fountain because I never wanted to see it again." Booth was livid.

"I know, Seeley, but someday, 30 years from now when you're looking back, you may wish you'd held on to it." His expression softened. She simply didn't realize the magnitude of the failure that this ring represented. It wasn't just about Hannah. _In fact_, he realized, belatedly, _it had never had much to do with Hannah in the first place._

"I'm sorry, Cam. I know you're just trying to help." He slipped the box into his pocket and turned to leave.

"Seeley," she hesitated, "I'm sorry too."

xxxxx

It was nearly two A.M, yet sleep eluded him. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind wandered to the small box Cam had given him. It was still in the pocket of his suit jacket, draped over the chair where he'd left it when he got home. Sighing, he slipped out of bed and padded to the kitchen to retrieve it. Snapping open the lid, he took the ring out, sitting down on the couch to inspect it. He'd known it was the wrong decision, even when he picked it out in the store. He'd chosen it for its size and its convenience, because it was beautiful, and because it was exactly what a woman was supposed to want. He'd chosen it like he'd chosen its recipient – because it was what he was supposed to do. He hadn't asked Hannah to marry him out of love, he realized, but out of anger and a twisted knowledge that it would hurt Bones. A part of him, he was ashamed to admit, had wanted to see her hurt the way that he had.

The ring represented a failure, not in his relationship with Hannah, but in his relationship with Bones. It was a betrayal, he realized, of the deepest kind. He'd told her that he would love her for 30, 40, or 50 years – forever. He'd promised her that there was more than one kind of family, and that opening herself up and allowing herself to love would not be a mistake. He had broken those vows. He shook his head at the irony. Engagement rings were supposed to be about keeping promises.

Remembering back to that fateful night by the Lincoln Memorial, he realized that when he'd decided to take a gamble, that it hadn't only been his feelings on the line. He'd gambled with her heart too. Blinded by his own insecurity, he'd been too hurt to see the fear in Brennan's eyes. Fear that everything would change, that a relationship with her wouldn't be enough for him, and that he, like everyone in her past, would leave her too. He'd bet her heart, and she'd tried to stop him, but it hadn't mattered. He'd hurt her anyway.

"Too much heart, Bones," he whispered. "Why do you have to have such a damn big heart?"

xxxxx

It took burying the ring in the back of his hall closet for Booth to finally fall asleep, and when he did, he dreamed of another ring, on another finger; of an alternate reality where he was Mr. B who owned the night club. He dreamed of Bren and their new baby, of happiness and love.

It was the same dream he'd had in his coma, but his unconscious mind noted one small difference: Bren had worn his Saint Christopher medal, and within his dream-mind, he'd called her 'Bones'.


	3. Interruptions and Complications

**Author's Note:** I apologize for the wait between chapters – I am a university student, and sometimes there simply aren't enough hours in the day. I hope to update more regularly in the coming weeks; my school's spring break is coming up and I intend to finish the story by that time. Thank you to all the reviewers – I'm too proud to beg for reviews, but I do appreciate the feedback.

xxxxx

He was angry. No, scratch that – he'd passed anger yesterday around 4. He was in a blinding rage, furious with the world, with Brennan, Hannah, Cam – anyone he could think of. (Okay, he amended, he wasn't angry with Parker). They'd wrapped the case of the Catholic Air Force pilot on Friday; it was Sunday evening now, and he'd spent most of the intervening time in the company a bottle of whiskey. He wasn't proud.

_Oh God, he'd lost his pride a long time ago. The day he'd taken a gamble by the reflecting pool - NO!_ – those memories were off-limits, he decided. It was easier just to forget everything, forget hope and possibility, all that could have been in another time and place, another world - one where she had been Bren and he'd been Mr. B… that was what was really making him so angry.

The dream, initially a product of an unpublished novel and a coma, had now become a nightly occurrence. Every day, he went to work to solve murders with his partner Bones, and every night, she appeared in his dreams as Bren. Every night, he dreamed of being her husband, holding her close whenever he wanted, making love to her – and every morning he woke up devastated to discover that none of it was real. The dream tormented him – endlessly needling at his subconscious, reminding him in graphic detail of the life he could never have.

Oh God, he was pathetic, he decided. Suddenly, he felt an irresistible urge to run. To leave the apartment, to just go, somewhere where nobody knew him and nobody cared about him. Grabbing his car keys and his wallet, he headed out the door.

Xxxxxxx

"Brennan, sweetie?" Angela's concerned voice greeted her from the doorway. She completed the sentence she was wrestling with before responding.

"Yes, Ange?"

"Sweetie, you've been in here working all weekend – isn't it time you took a break?"

"Angela, you know I'm on a deadline. My publisher wanted the draft of my next book a month ago."

"I know sweetie, but you can't keep pushing yourself like this. Take a break. Grab some dinner."

"Angela…" The warning voice. Angela knew better than to argue with it. She tried a different tactic.

"You know, Bren, you won't be able to write as well if you're hungry. You've got to fuel your brain a little." It was sneaky, she knew, but if appealing to Brennan's logic was the only way to inject a little sanity into the situation, well – she was willing to try it. Brennan sighed, knowing her friend meant well. And besides, Angela was right about the necessity of sustenance when writing – her last few paragraphs had left a lot to be desired.

"Fine, Angela. I'll take a break."

"Great! Want to grab some dinner? Jack and I found this great little Chinese place not too far from here."

"Dinner sounds wonderful, Ange." Her voice tugged on Angela's heart. Brennan was tired; any idiot could see that. But there was something else, too, a feeling that the scientist was missing more than sleep.

"Come on sweetie," Angela wrapped her arm around her friend's shoulder, guiding her out of the office. She'd do her best to make Booth see sense, but failing that, she knew the best thing she could do for Brennan was to be her friend.

Xxxxx

Temperance Brennan livened up considerably when presented with the overpowering combination of green tea, fantastic dim sum, and her free-spirited friend. The two women had spent several gleeful hours rehashing some of their more _risqué_ adventures (Angela had a bit of an edge in this department), and both were rather silly – at least, as silly as a world-renowned anthropologist ever allowed herself to be. Hodgins had shown up midway through the meal, already missing his wife. Brennan had smiled at him kindly when he'd arrived; they'd become quite close over the past few months. _It was sweet how obviously and deeply the man cared for her friend,_ Brennan admitted, if only to herself.

"Well, I'm getting rather tired, Angela. Thank you for a lovely evening."

"Brennan, sweetie, don't go yet." She elbowed her husband hastily in the ribs.

"Yeah, Dr. B, stay and have another drink with us." Hodgins managed, despite the sharp pain in his side. He knew there'd be much worse if he didn't make an attempt at keeping the anthropologist there.

"You and Angela are newlyweds, Hodgins. I understand that there is anthropological significance to this time in your marriage, and that you wish to spend a certain amount of time alone with each other. Angela and I have already been here for several hours, and have had a lovely time, so please don't worry about me." Hodgins grinned at this statement; Angela frowned as her friend left a few bills to cover her dinner and headed towards the door.

"One second, Jack," she whispered to her husband as she slipped out of the booth, following Brennan out the door.

"Brennan, are you sure you're okay?" She asked, concern genuinely evident on her face.

"I'm fine, Angela. I just need some sleep."

"Okay." Angela knew better than to pry. Brennan would tell her what was going on when she was ready. "Well, if there's anything I can do for you, let me know."

"Actually," Brennan began, "There is one thing. I wrote several journals summarizing my findings during my dig in Maluku. I was hoping that, if you had the time, you might be able to re-create renderings of some of the artifacts that we found; I've included fairly detailed descriptions in my notes." Angela wrinkled her nose – it would be something work related.

"Sure, sweetie. Just give me the journals and I'm on it."

"They're at my apartment right now. I'll put them in your office once I get back to the lab. Tomorrow." This last bit, she added at a glare from Angela.

"Okay, Brennan. See you tomorrow." Angela watched her friend climb into her car and drive away, a great deal more worried about the scientist than she had let on. She knew Brennan needed to process feelings on her own, and at a glacially slow pace, but she also knew that the anthropologist was notoriously bad at explaining her own psychology. Usually, Booth was the one who was able to get her to talk about the thoughts racing around in her enormous brain, but something told Angela that Booth was not going to be very much help this time. Sighing distractedly, she turned and walked back into the restaurant, towards her waiting husband.

Xxxxx

Brennan's visit with Angela had shaken her more than she'd let on. She could tell that her friend was worried about her, and as carefully as she'd controlled her behavior, she knew that the evening they'd just spent together had done nothing to assuage that artist's fears. Distractedly, Brennan drove aimlessly, a testament to her mental state – directionlessness was something she usually abhorred. She'd been feeling it more and more lately.

Snapping out of her thoughts, she belatedly realized that she recognized the somewhat shady neighborhood she was currently driving through. Her breath caught in her chest as she rounded the corner to see the bar Booth had taken her to during their first case together, that fateful night that they'd "missed their moment". _That was what Sweets had said, wasn't it?_ She questioned. She slowed to a crawl as she passed, peering in the glowing windows, and allowing herself a rare moment of remembrance. She could almost see them, Booth and her former self, sitting at the bar, a bottle of tequila half-empty between them. For a mere instant, she wondered what would have happened if she'd let him climb in the cab with her. How differently would things have turned out? She wondered, breathlessly, if she'd been able to open her heart to Booth from the very beginning. For the tiniest sliver of a lifetime, she wished with all her heart that it had happened, before stopping herself. _That was the thing about a human life,_ she told herself, _there was no control group, no way of ever knowing how anything would have turned out if any variable had been changed._ It was pointless to speculate on missed opportunities in her relationship with Booth, if that was even the right thing to call them. They were choices. She'd made them. They were all in the past now.

Taking one last glance through the window, she began to drive away, when something caught her eye. At first, she though he was a figment of her imagination, but a second look confirmed her initial suspicions. It was Booth inside the bar, and he grasped a pool cue in his hand. A pile of bills lay on the table, and Brennan realized with a shock how gravely she had miscalculated.


End file.
